The Scribbler, Iain Maitland [inspirational books TXT] 📗

slow brother, leaning against him. “Mother’s here soon,” he said quietly.

The slow brother sat up, looked around him, remembering where he was, and smiled across at Carrie.

Carrie, already awake, smiled back, her hands, raw and torn, holding the shard of glass as she tore steadily at the material round her wrists.

It snapped.

She looked across at the smart brother, who had his fingers resting lightly on the gun on his lap.

Always ready.

“I meant to ask,” she said to the smart brother, “the papers called you The Scribbler … why do you draw a likeness on the chests … the stomachs?”

He sat there, looking back at her for a while. Then put the gun carefully to one side and pulled at his jumper and the vest beneath.

Lifted them up so she could see the white lines of ridged skin across his chest; age-old scars of a rough-hewn face.

He shrugged and said hesitantly, “Father … we both have them.”

The slow brother moved his gun away from the side of his leg. Reached and pulled up his jumper and vest too.

Carrie felt a sudden pang of sadness.

The two of them like awkward children, lifting their tops, showing their matching, etched-in scars, all these years later.

“Why?” she said simply, not trusting herself to say more.

The smart brother pulled down his vest and jumper.

“Father was … an angry man … frustrated.”

“Ronnie wanted to be an artist,” the slow brother said.

“I told him one day,” the smart brother continued, “when we were in the small barn, that I wanted to draw. That it would be my job when I grew up. Mother had given me a pad and pencils at Christmas … Caran d’Ache they were called … I was good at it. I enjoyed it. It made me happy.”

“You drew everything,” the slow brother said. “The farmhouse. The dog. Charlie.” He pulled his clothes down too and reached into his pocket and took out the teddy bear. “You were very good.”

“Father flew into a rage. Said it was stupid. I was needed on the farm. There was no living to be made from drawing … I defied him … said I was going to be an artist when I was older. And then …” The smart brother stopped speaking, struggling for words.

“He taught us a lesson.” The slow brother reached out and put his hand on his brother’s arm. “So that we would remember his words … Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.” He paused, remembering. “In humility value others above yourselves.”

“So, he did this … to both of you … because …” Carrie stumbled over her sentence.

And as they sat there, lost for words, they heard the police calling again, not asking to see Carrie this time, but shouting that Mother was on the way.

The smart brother grabbed his gun and went to the front window to answer.

The slow brother picked up his gun and went downstairs. Emptying his bladder against the barn wall.

Carrie sat there, shard of glass in her hand, deciding what to do.

* * *

Carrie heard them first. Somewhere off to the left. In the distance. But coming closer.

The noise of children, running through the trees.

Happy shouts. Sudden bursts of laughter.

She looked over to the front window, where the smart brother stood crouched, gazing out, gun in hand, waiting for Mother’s imminent arrival. The spotlights were off now so close to daylight. There were police officers, mostly armed, spread out in various protected positions in an arc in front of him.

“What’s that?” she shouted urgently.

He tipped his head at an angle, listening. He answered slowly, as if it were of no significance. “Children coming for a Christmas tree. They’re not supposed to be here now. They must be overexcited, coming here before breakfast.”

“No, but I mean …” she struggled to get to her feet.

“Their father will be with them. They live on the other side of the fields. The father’s been helping to cut the Christmas trees. We promised them one. They have come early, that’s all. They have chosen their tree and put their ribbons on it.”

“Yes, but …” she stood up, with a sense of almost overwhelming unease.

“I’m not going to shoot them. And the police won’t. They’ll just gather the children up when they get here.”

He stopped and turned towards her. “Look,” he said, pointing the gun down to the floor. He seemed close to smiling, “they’re safe. I told you. I’ll not shoot them.”

Carrie heard the children again, closer now.

Laughter. Lots of ssshhhing. More giggles.

By the side of the barn, up alongside it and towards the front.

She waited for the police to call out. To shout to the children. Stop. Stand still. A woman PC, maybe two, running over to fetch them. Take them away from any danger. All under the watchful eyes of the waiting armed police.

But all she could hear were the children.

Now at the front of the barn.

Shouting and excited. Almost beside themselves with expectation. An incongruous, joyful noise.

Carrie saw her chance, moving carefully towards the smart brother and the front window. Slowly, so he would not notice. She felt the shard of glass in her hand and was ready to use it.

She could hear a girl clearly now, very close and giggling loudly.

The smart brother watched as Carrie approached, standing back so that she could move up and see out of the window. He seemed to have no sense of danger.

She stopped, though, before she got there, could hear a boy calling, “Hello-oo. Hello-oo,” at the top of his voice. He must be just below the window. It reminded her of someone, a cartoon character Noah liked on the telly.

Expected to hear shouts and movements from the police. Going to get the children. Taking them to safety.

Instead, she turned in sudden shock, hearing the slow brother below moving to the door, wrenching it open and running out of the barn. She felt a surge of fear.

“Children!” he shouted, running towards them as they stood bewildered, midway between the barn and the